Page 65 of The Last to Let Go
—Aaron
The paper slips between my fingers. It hits the table with a hollow tap and then flutters to the floor, shifting something in the air around me. I march into the hallway and throw open the door of my parents’ room. The bed is made perfectly. The closet empty. The bathroom clean.
I walk back out and look around. Everything is different. New. Raw.
All my worry, my fear, it all turns, like some kind of previously contained fire inside of me, suddenly raging out of control in all directions. I sweep both of my arms across the kitchen table, throwing everything to the floor: dishes, apples and oranges, the full cup of now-cold coffee I poured for Aaron. I knock the chair over too. It feels good. I don’t care if it breaks. I don’t care ifIbreak. I don’t care about anything, anyone.
In my ears I hear something—something loud and terrible. I cover them with my hands. And then I realize that loud, terrible noise is me. I’m yelling, screaming, crying. I’m throwing things. I’m pacing. I want to punch a wall—so bad. The inside of my chest feels like it’s freezing and burning at the same time.
“Why?” I’m yelling. “Why?” I’m shouting. “Why?” I’m sobbing until I can’t tell anymore if I’m even saying it out loud. I’ve slowed down, like someone struggling against quicksand. I’m suddenly taken down; I’m lying on the floor, part of the debris.
Someone’s knocking on the door. I cover my ears again, but I can still hear it.
Knock-knock-knock.Louder, louder, louder.
“Hello? Helloo-ooo?” It’s Mrs. Allister. “It’s Mrs. Allister. From downstairs. I heard some commotion.”Knock-knock-knock.“Just making sure everyone’s okay.”
“Go away,” I whisper.
“Hell-ooo?”Knock-knock-knock.
“Goaway,” my voice squeaks.
I’ve hit the ground—literally, metaphorically, and everything in between. I’ve finally stopped falling. I take a good look around me. At the mess I’ve made. It looks so much like the aftermath of my dad on some psychotic rampage. I feel my heart start pounding inside my chest, banging, thumping wildly. Then, abruptly, it slows, slows too quickly, so quickly I’m afraid it’s going to stop. I close my eyes. And then I’m gone.
“Hoooh-leeeeshit.” I open my eyes. Callie’s standing over me, wearing her coat and gloves and scarf, her overnight bag slung over one shoulder. I’m flat on my back on the living room floor.
“What the ef happened in here?” she asks, almost laughing, but not quite.
“Callie?” I say, uncertain of my voice, my body, my anything. Because it feels like I’m waking up, not from sleep, but from my whole life.
“What happened?”
“I—I fell,” I whisper, pushing myself up to sitting.
“Fell?” she repeats, raising her eyebrows. “Are you hurt?”
My head feels like it has cracked open once and for all. I hold it between my hands, trying to put the pieces back together. “No.” I clear my throat. “When did you get here?”
“Just now. Jackie dropped me off. Where was everyone last night? Why didn’t anyone call me? I was worried. Where’s Aaron?” she asks, looking around suspiciously.
I stand, shaky on my new feet, on my new ground, testing it like ice with each step, not sure if it’s solid or if I’ll fall through again.
She stands in front of me, crossing her arms, and we’re nearly at the same eye level. When did she get so tall? “Are you having a breakdown?” she finally asks, surveying the damage.
“No, of course not.” But she looks at me like she’s not convinced.
“Dr. Greenberg says people don’t breakdown, they’re really breaking open. So. It’s not that bad, if you are.” She reaches for the chair to turn it upright.
“No offense, but I don’t think I should be taking mental health advice from a twelve-year-old.”
“It’s notmyadvice. And I’ll be thirteen next month, anyway.”
“Fine,” I relent, beginning to gather the miscellaneous pieces of broken things at my feet. “But I’m not breaking down, or breaking open, just so you know.”
She scowls and shrugs. “Fine.”
“Look, Callie. I need to tell you, Aaron left town this morning, but—”
